And There We Wept, I and a Ghostly Other
by Daisy S
Summary: Season 3: Sam is struggling with the weight of Dean's life on his shoulders as time is ticking away . . bad decisions and desperate actions abound. Hurt Sam and poor angsty, dashing Dean.


It started so innocently. Something he'd done in college once... or twice. The pressure to do well, to keep that full ride, keep a job, keep his friends, keep Jess; sometimes it was too much. Speed is what it was technically, although it wasn't sold like that. He didn't call it that. 'Study aid' was the term, better than a Rockstar with added sugar and caffeine. And he'd only indulged when he really needed to. Like when studying for the L-SATS and those few exams in his second year when he really should have known better and started cramming earlier.

He remembers planning to go see 'Walk the Line' with Jess when it came out, how excited she had been to see it. He hadn't been as excited- the idea of watching Johnny Cash slowly lose it on those pills brought a brief stab of fear that he might have gone that far. And then the mental jibe, 'don't be such a drama queen you pussy. Sure you did it once, or twice; it takes a lot more than that to turn into a slobbering mess and you know it.' The voice in his head always sounded suspiciously like Dean- still did. Always would. A voice that was simultaneously his conscience and the devil on his shoulder. And that definitely wouldn't be an analogy he'd use anymore.

He remembers that one time before a big assignment was due- twenty-five per cent of his overall grade and man, he wished he'd started it earlier but Zach had scored some tickets to a weekend festival off the radio and before he knew it they'd been piling into his car with two twenty-four packs of natty light and a solemn promise to start it on Monday. And the Monday became Tuesday and then Wednesday, until eventually an all-nighter had to be pulled and he had to call his buddy for another 'study aid'.

Saying it like that made him feel better, and he could almost brush off completely the faint twinge of guilt. That time though, the stuff was too much, and he couldn't sleep for a couple of days, hyper and loud until he had to call his buddy again. Just a downer, something to help him rest. And when he'd woken up after that- the headache, the cotton wool taste in his mouth, the dizziness from not eating for a few days on a hyper-active metabolism, he had decided that was that. It scared him a little and irked him just how easy it had been to do it, to get away with it- it wasn't right. It'd be coffee and Rockstars and sugar from now on in. Although there was no cause for any of that after- Dean had come to get him and his world fell apart. He never did get to see 'Walk the Line' or worry about Johnny Cash.

No more assignments, no more Rockstars, no more weekend festivals and natty light.

It had occurred to him a few times in the months that followed that he could probably find someone with something that could help him with his sleeping problems. With the black hole he'd fallen into and couldn't seem to haul himself out of. But he was smarter than that and could comprehend the difference between using a ... a study aid, and using something to forget Jess. He wouldn't have wanted that anyway- memories of Jess and the nightmares kept him grounded, human and reminded him in some twisted way that he'd had a life once. He'd been happy once.

He remembers that moment, about a month ago somewhere in Illinois, when he spotted the shady corner, the shadier looking guy, and the furtive transaction of the tiny baggy to a young woman. She was dressed up to go out on the prowl, and he had remembered with a twinge that it was a Saturday night and they were in a college town. The decision was made before he even thought about it, and he was halfway across the street before he realised he was. He had been having trouble with late night study sessions, he said. Big test coming up, he explained. The guy had what he was looking for, and then it was just another furtive transaction, with a shady guy, on a shady street corner. He couldn't tell him what the study sessions were for. He had lied. A big math test. The guy had shuddered; 'Never liked math. Nope, no good with numbers.' But he was good enough when it came to cash in hand for a baggy in exchange. A nod was given and a 'good luck' in farewell. Would a 'good luck' have been offered if the study session had been revealed as Satanist in origin? Rituals and spells and chants instead of matrices, differentiation and trigonometry? Although maybe he could have said the study session was for a mythology class. Dante's Inferno. The circles of Hell. And the big test was whether or not he could keep his big brother alive. And if he couldn't, which circle of Hell he'd be going to.

Yeah, big test alright.

He remembered staying up a few nights in a row. Taking his maglite outside and making frantic notes in red and blue pen in his journal. Ancient protection charms, rituals that could stave off the hellhounds. Anything. Everything.

Until it got a little too much and he decided to sleep a little. Just a little. But as he had lain in that bed, in that night's flea-bag motel, sleep wouldn't come. So he had put his time to good use, going back outside with his maglite and getting back to work. The next day, he decided, I'll get some downers. Any twinge of guilt gone. Any worry for his health disappeared. Any recollection of Johnny Cash or a sweet blonde sitting with him buried deep into his memory for safe-keeping.

And so, the next day came as it always, terrifyingly did. He found a hip young bar, the kind of bar where coke is the order of the day, not study aids or downers, but he hoped that he would be able to find someone with a kind heart and a soft spot for stressed out grad students. He left the bar with a baggy of what he was looking for, and a warning not to overdo it on the studying. He had to take care of himself after all. He didn't mention the brother with a death wish, and that somebody had to take care of him too.

So he had gone back to the motel, into the bathroom, past his brother, straight to the mirror and stared. The face that looked back wasn't his own. Black and blue bags under his eyes that made it look like he'd been punched, red eyes, white face and altogether it was a scary combination. He decided that tonight he would sleep well. He felt awful, and by the way Dean had been staring at him as he had marched by, he figured he looked pretty awful too. So he had taken two pills. That was all. And then he looked in the mirror again, and took a third.

He had gone back outside, shucking his jeans and crawling into bed. Bone weary and soul weary, he said nothing, not even the usual 'G'night' to his brother as the light was turned off and he got into bed too. He lay there for what felt like hours, panicking now. Hell hounds were coming and they would be leaving him alone, forever. No one to confirm his existence, to worry about him when injured, to pimp him out to girls that looked like his type. No one. And he needed to sleep so so bad, and it seemed like the reasonable thing to do, to stumble into the bathroom and take two more. Just two more. Housewives were prescribed this shit for gods sake.

Apparently, judging by how he was feeling now, those last two hadn't been such a good idea. His mouth was so dry he felt like he was back to that Monday after the weekend festival. The hangover was unreal. He tried to sit up, to get some water, and realised he wasn't in the motel. He tried to move again and felt the pull of an IV and the strain of the oxygen canula on his nose. Shit. He opened his eyes. Dean. Sitting there. Watching. Now he was the one with black, blue and red eyes. The white face. The look on his face that was anger. Disappointment. Pity. Worry.

''m sorry'

He tried. Came out like a strangled cat yelping though. He coughed, tried to moisten his mouth. Coughed again. Dean sighed and moved to the bedside table with the pitcher and glass and filled him a glass of water. Dean moved slowly, hands shaking like an old man, the water jumping in the glass as he tried to steady himself. He leaned over and put the glass to his lips, tipping the cool liquid into his cotton wool mouth. Nothing had ever tasted so good, so pure, so clean, so fresh- so not what he deserved. He choked on the thought, guilt crushing him as realisation crowded in. 'Small sips dude' Dean soothed, carefully wiping the dripping water from his mouth. 'You really with me this time?'

He tried again. 'I'm sorry'

Dean stared him in the eye until he had to look away. He could hear the heavy boot falls of his brother's sure walk begin to pace the room. A resigned sigh came from beside the window. 'Yeah, so I've heard'

'I- can we...I just wanted...' A sigh. A soul weary sigh that couldn't have been cured with the promise of seventy-two virgins, a lifetime of weekend festivals, a warehouse of natty light and a law degree for free. 'Can we just forget about it? I won't do it again. I learned my lesson, this isn't the way to go. I get it now. Just say no, right?' A hoarse laugh. A failed attempt. Hot shame crawling from his belly to his reddening cheeks.

Dean turned around from the window. Started moving towards him. He half hoped he was coming to give him a hug, hold his hand, mess with his hair, tease him about looking like a girl, anything. 'We need to leave. They'll figure out the insurance is bogus soon. We've already been here too long.'

That was a curveball. Too long? Surely it had only been a couple of hours?

'How long?'

'Three days.'

He gasped, and the hot prickle of tears that irritated his eyes, had nothing to do with the IV being yanked out or the oxygen band being pulled away and had everything to do with the realisation that three more days had been lost. They were three days closer. Dean shoved some clothes on his lap and went outside, slamming the door.

He got up out of bed, ignoring the dizziness, the pins and needles in his hands as he tried to get dressed. He was halfway there ten minutes later, only struggling with the laces on his sneakers and the buttons on his shirt, when Dean came in again, muttering something to himself about ungrateful slow ass brothers. He came over and tied the sneakers with a ferocity that nearly pulled off his feet and then moved onto the shirt. He worried the shirt would rip under the force of being yanked so hard but didn't say anything. The buttons were done up wrong but that was ok. He was dressed and ready to go.

Dean said nothing until they got to the hotel. No music in the car and no more muttering about crappy little brothers. They got into the room and only then did all hell break loose. He tried to say something, apologise again, but Dean whirled around and punched him in the face so hard he thought his cheek had cracked. He straightened up and looked him in the eye. And got punched again for it. This time he went flying back, balance off kilter, crashing into the table by the door and slid right down onto the floor. He felt something wet on his cheek, and wondered if he was crying. He raised his hand quickly trying to wipe away the tears and evidence of weakness, and was duly surprised when his hand came away red. Blood, not tears. Phew.

He flinched when Dean fell to his knees in front of him. Anguish and sorrow evident in every line of his face. 'Sam... God Sammy, I'm sorry, so sorry... I don't know why I.. I was so freaking scared man.. you- you're the only one who could scare me like that, y'know? I mean- you did this, and there was nothing I could do to help, and you wouldn't wake up... I... man you can't do this to me!'

Sam. Sam was surprised at the emotion. At the apology. At the hug.

'Its ok man. I'm sorry' Dean choked out into Sam's neck. 'We'll figure it out. No one's dying here, alright?' Alright. No one. Not by their own hands or anyone else's. Not by hell hounds or stupid decisions. They were stronger than that. And they owed it to each other.

A/N Reviews would be hugely appreciated as I've never actually written anything before and am pretty nervous about this.... eeep!


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